


Now Show Me Something Pretty

by freckleon



Category: Knight & Rogue - Hilari Bell
Genre: M/M, PWP, Sex, Sweat, That is all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleon/pseuds/freckleon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael likes everything about Fisk in this moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Show Me Something Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> This came tumbling out after reading the only other explicit story for this fandom (so if it seems familiar I'm sorry, but more is good, right?) and I just didn't touch it up until now. I still hate endings.

Fisk's thighs cling valiantly to his hips, slipping on the sweat from both their bodies, but always righting themselves. Michael tries to help, holding Fisk's thigh up with a firm hand, but he keeps getting distracted. The hand slides away in search of Fisk's chest, his jaw, his hair, his cock. Michael wants to be touching all of them.

"You are beyond lovely," he pants, before surging in for another kiss. Fisk's already ruddy skin gets darker at the words, and Michael likes that too. He likes everything about Fisk in this moment.

When he goes to hitch Fisk's leg up again, Fisk throws an arm over his face, hiding the color. Hiding from Michael as he is wont to do during sex.

"None of that," chastises Michael immediately.

"What," gasps Fisk.

"You know exactly what, squire," growls Michael distractedly, his concentration split between talking and fucking.

Fisk doesn't respond for a while, just moans brokenly and twists his ankles at Michael's back.

" _Fisk_!"

"Michael, fuck—" Fisk hisses, finally moving the cursed arm and glaring at him. "—I can barely look at you right now, much less _listen_ —"

A particularly forceful thrust has Fisk shutting right back up and squeezing his eyes closed once again. Michael gives an aggrieved groan.

"Fine," he says. "Then I suppose I can say whatever I want, since you are far too busy to hear any of it."

He highly doubts that his squire will put up with it for long. Fisk wants to get fucked—and Michael is reasonably sure that Fisk wants to get fucked specifically by him—but the squire also thinks that Michael says really stupid stuff during sex. Which, okay, fair point. Michael once told him that he felt "softer than his mother's velvet skirts" and Fisk had refused to so much as kiss him for two days until Michael promised never to bring his parents up during sex again.

On the other side of the coin, Michael may say whatever silly thing scrolls through his head while buried balls deep, but Fisk is the loud one. It is just that the noises he makes are usually of the incoherent variety, thus less likely to mortify anyone involved.

The perspiration gathered on Michael's face trickles down to splash on Fisk's eyelid and Michael lets out a snicker because it's _revolting_ how filthy they are right now. On instinct, Fisk clumsily attempts to wipe the moisture away with a damp hand and only succeeds in spreading the sweat around, blinking wildly to counter the dark clumps of eyelashes that refuse to separate. Michael laughs harder, but Fisk just ignores him, letting his eyes fall shut and fingers return to their business of yanking the sheets into an unmanageable mess.

Unhappy with still being ignored, Michael licks him. One long gross swipe from cheek to hairline that Fisk attempts to escape by twisting into the pillow. When the boy gives no other reaction, Michael kisses his cheek and the one cluster of uncooperative eyelashes he can reach, before licking his exposed ear.

"You're disgusting," Fisk accuses him, rubbing his ear against the sheets in mock displeasure but smiling all the same.

"And you're not?" Michael shoots back. He gives a particularly hard thrust just to hear the squelch and slap of their joined skin, louder even than Fisk's accompanying stream of curses. Michael whole-heartedly agrees with the sentiment, still in awe of the exquisite heat wrapped around his cock. Unthinking, the knight reaches reverent fingers down to rub the soft ring of skin that is holding him so tightly, and Fisk sucks in a loud, stuttering breath.

"Okay?" murmurs Michael, looking up to find Fisk staring openly at him.

Fisk ignores the question, blinking dumbly at Michael. "You do this so well," he blurts and Michael makes a questioning noise. Finally unclenching his fingers from the pillow, Fisk raises them to grip the back of Michael's neck and uses the leverage to pull himself up until their lips are almost touching, then whispers fervently, "You make me feel really good."

It is praise that Michael didn't even realize how much he was craving. Sliding his arms under Fisk's shoulders, Michael scoops him up and manages to drag them into a sitting position, the wet sheen of their bodies smoothing the way. A surprised moan escapes Fisk and he readjust slightly in Michael's lap, until he's sunk down entirely on the knight's cock.

"Seriously," gasps Fisk, after stealing a heated kiss. "How're you—this is really damn good."

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

"You said you'd never done this before me."

Fisk actually sounds a little betrayed, which is unfounded and adorable. Michael grins, pulling Fisk even closer and kissing his rose-red cheek.

"I'm a fast learner."

Fisk shoves him as if the statement were a challenge, and Michael falls back on his elbows, smile growing even wider. The expression morphs quickly to an open mouthed moan when Fisk rolls his hips in a sinuous fashion.

"Then let me teach," Fisk tells him with a forceful squeeze of his thighs. The pressure suddenly increases elsewhere as well, and Michael loses all breath, hanging his head between his shoulders until his hair paints the bed. The knight is drowning in the wet heat of the room as much as he is drowning in the tight clench of his friend.

Fisk continues his demonstration, the harsh slapslapslap of his ass slowing driving Michael insane. By the time Michael again manages to lift his head, Fisk is looking quite smug indeed, if not a little frayed at the edges. He's riding Michael to a mindless slop and the knight can't help but stare in awe, especially at the clear edge of nerves surrounding Fisk's play at confidence. Fisk does have more experience than the knight, a thing which excites and infuriates Michael in turns. Considering where his cock is currently residing, Michael is firmly on the side of excitement in this moment.

Having finally managed to catch his breath, Michael can't help but open his mouth once more even if it does emerge as little more than a ragged pant.

"'Tis a very pretty view from here."

Fisk scrunches his nose. "It is always 'pretty' and 'lovely' with you. I am not a girl, Michael."

"I know pretty when I see it. You, my dear Fisk, are the prettiest boy at the ball."

"I would like to remind you exactly who has control of _your_ balls at this moment before you make any further insinuations that I would ever be caught voluntarily in a suit and tie."

Michael makes a humming noise. "I wouldn't mind the sight of that."

Ah. There it is. The flush is returning and Fisk is ducking his head, trying to hide again.

"Oh no you don't," growls Michael, and he flips them, getting Fisk on his back once more and restraining his arms in one swift motion. Fisk doesn’t even test the strength of the hold on him, just stares in wide-eyed surprise.

"Gods," he moans. "You're—"

"Yes," agrees Michael senselessly, kissing him once and then shoving their foreheads together. "Yes, I think I like you here best."

The bed is put to the test as Michael fucks with sloppy purpose, nearing his end. Every nerve in his body sings for it and he is struck again with the urge to be touching every bit of his squire, every inch of warm, heaving skin. Arms busy pinning Fisk in place, he must settle for another fevered kiss.

"Gods." Fisk repeats the word on a sigh moments after his lips are released. Foreheads still touching, Michael drags his eyes from the drooling head of Fisk's cock, slapping happily between them, to find Fisk's gaze, amazed to see that Fisk is staring back at him just as avidly. "Gods, I love you."

Michael stares at him, kisses him, laughs, kisses him again, and shoves his face into Fisk's warm neck to whisper some declarations of his own.


End file.
